The Healing Touch
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: A back-ache can be debilitating, but thankfully John has the healing touch...


**The Healing Touch**

Sherlock stifled a groan as he rolled over in bed, pain shooting up from _all_ the wrong parts of his body. Any pain was usually a bad sign, but this... this was _not_ good.

He'd taken a rather unfortunate tumble from a fire escape during a chase. It had only been five feet, give or take, and there had been trash bags to break his fall, but he had landed awkwardly. He had felt the twinge of pain shoot through his back at the time, but he had just popped back up to fend off John's concern and continued the chase.

He could ignore things in the face of an adrenalin-laced chase, but sprawled out in bed with the _enormous_ task of having to get himself ready to face his morning routine, he couldn't.

He shifted experimentally. Pain shot through his back and a hiss slipped from between his clenched teeth. Hopefully he had just pulled a muscle or twisted something. That was a good case scenario. Bad case scenarios were things he didn't care to entertain right now.

There were three options. He could stay in bed, prompting concern from John and Mrs Hudson and quite possibly meaning missing out on a case. Or he could struggle through the pain and get on with the day, but his chances of hiding the uncomfortableness were little to none. His third option appeared to be the best one out of the three... and that was calling John into his room and asking him what he could do. While John might complain and doctor him a bit, he would probably be able to help more than struggling through it or a day in bed would.

With as little movement as possible, Sherlock grabbed his mobile off the nightstand to text John. It was a simple text asking for help and John didn't text back, but footsteps on the stairs were heard not five minutes later.

John knocked slightly and opened the door. His hair was still mussed and he was wearing his dressing gown. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised his hand without raising his head. "Here."

"What do you want? I was still sleeping."

"Only for another half hour," Sherlock murmured. He shifted the duvet so he could look across the room at John. "... I'm... I need your help."

"What could you _possibly_ need my help for when you're still in bed?" John asked tiredly. He didn't seem annoyed as usual. Didn't sleep well last night, then. Too tired to argue.

Sherlock licked his lips. "I'm, er, hurt."

John's eyes became a little more intent immediately. "What? Why? What's wrong?"

"You remember when I missed that step-"

"When you fell on your arse? Sherlock, you said you were fine!"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, well, it appears I'm not."

"What's wrong?" John asked, flicking on the light.

Sherlock winced from the sudden light in the room, throwing his arm across his eyes. "Ow. Don't be an idiot!"

"Sorry. Where are you hurt?" John asked. He was like a hound intent on a scent now.

"My eyes, now..." Sherlock muttered. "But... uh, my back."

"Your back?" John asked, peeling the blankets away.

"Hey, it's cold and I'm naked! Mind the blankets!" Sherlock said, grabbing the blankets and tucking them around his hips.

"That's not my fault," John said, pushing at Sherlock's shoulder. "Budge over."

"Ow!"

John faltered slightly. "... You're really not putting it on, are you?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, pressing his face into the pillow. He opted not to respond.

"Can you turn over?" John asked quietly. "Lay on your stomach?"

Slowly, Sherlock shuffled until he was on his stomach, trying to keep the pain out of his face and posture. It would show in the way he moved and held his shoulders, of course, but the less noticeable, the better. And maybe a still tired John would miss the little details.

"Did you hear anything pop or crack when you fell? Any sharp pain?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No. I think I just twisted it wrong when I fell or something," he mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Let me know if any of this hurts, alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, hyperaware of John's fingers brushing at first gently and then with more pressure at his bare back. It hurt, a bit, but nothing that Sherlock was willing to voice a complaint over. It was just on the side of pain, something not quite right but not bad, either. Besides, John was putting pressure on a sore part of his body; of course it would hurt a bit.

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt when I press? You're tense," John commented.

"Reflex," Sherlock muttered, not opening his eyes. "I'm tense in preparation of the fact that it _might_ hurt when you touch it."

"Well, relax," John said, his fingers pushing into a pliable spot in his back.

The jolt of pain was unmistakeable and Sherlock winced. John pulled his hands away immediately but Sherlock was focussed on the after-affects of the pressure. It had shot through his veins, straight to his toes. It wasn't... wholly unpleasant.

"Sorry," John said. "It hurts there?"

Sherlock tried to relax again, letting out a deep breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Mmm... feels... fine," he settled on.

"Fine?" John asked. "You just flinched like you'd been shot."

Sherlock sighed. "Hurts pleasantly."

"It hurts pleasantly," John repeated.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, opening his eyes even if he couldn't see John from this angle. "Do it again."

John sighed, although he sank onto the edge of the bed and returned his fingers to Sherlock's back. "This has gone from an examination to a massage."

Sherlock squirmed a bit into John's fingers, trying to get him to press on a particularly sore spot beneath his right shoulder-blade. "... Never had a massage," he mumbled.

"Really?"

Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Never have time."

"Yeah, right," John muttered. "I imagine you probably pulled a muscle or, like you said, twisted wrong. A heating pad would help and if it doesn't go away, we'll set up an appointment at the clinic."

Sherlock yawned widely. "Heating pad after the massage."

He winced again when John dug his fingers in, rubbing little circles that radiated small shoots of pain. It felt good, strange enough. Very good. Very relaxing.

"You do this well," he mumbled.

John hummed, digging both of his thumbs. "Well, I spent enough time in physical therapy that I picked up a few things of my own."

"Oh."

"It doesn't hurt when you tell your girlfriend that you're knowledgeable in massage, either," John added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You could tell your flatmate once in awhile, too, you know."

"If you weren't in pain, I _wouldn't_ be doing this," John said sternly. "But you are _ridiculously_ tense," he said, fingers pressing into the muscles beneath his neck. "You need to relax sometime or you're going up to end up having a heart attack before you're fifty."

"Oh, I don't have time to relax," Sherlock said, pulling his arms up nestle his face into them. "But this isn't so bad."

Slowly, prod by prod, Sherlock felt the tension leaving his neck, his shoulders. He relaxed into the silky sheets beneath his body and the fleece blanket tangled around his legs. He was just starting to drift back off into a peaceful dream when the pressure that was John's presence vanished.

Sherlock forced his eyes open slowly. "... John...?"

"Just go to sleep," John murmured, standing up.

Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes again as John tucked the blanket around his shoulder. "Thank you..." he mumbled.

"I'll get you the heating pad in a bit, alright?"

Sherlock nodded numbly, drifting off into one of the most relaxed naps he'd had in... well, a good, long while.

* * *

**I also have a bit of a thing for the boys giving each other platonic massages, but maybe that's just me. =p I actually think I'd prefer a massage from Sherlock... he seems like he'd be good at that. (Also, note my whole disclaimer that you shouldn't try giving a massage if you don't know what you're doing and we'll just go with the assumption that Sherlock figured it was a pulled muscle rather than something serious that shouldn't be touched.)**

**I do not own ****_Sherlock._**** Thank you!**


End file.
